MR. PYM AND AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
When Mr. Cromwell had seen Lord Strafford ride away into the late
summer dust of gold, he returned to his lodging and, packing up his
effects, went back to Huntingdon. He was lately removed from St. Ives
to Ely, and was become of late a more quiet, sombre man than even
formerly, for he had received a blow his soul had staggered under,
namely, the death of his eldest son, a gallant youth still at college.
Yet he was soon withdrawn again from his grazing grounds and his
cattle, his harvesting, and buying, and selling, for the King called a
Parliament, and the people sent up from the boroughs and shires all the
flower of English gentlehood, the Cursons, Ashtons, Leighs, Derings,
Ingrams, Fairfaxes, Cecils, Polles, Grenvils, Trevors, Carews, and
Edgcombes, all fine old names deep rooted in English soil--most of them
the very men who had formed the late Parliament which the King had so
summarily dismissed--and with them came Mr. Cromwell, borough Member
for Cambridge, a silent man still, waiting for the Divine guidance
which had been promised him when he entered into Covenant with the Lord.
Soon after the session opened, a motion was moved for inquiry into
Irish affairs, and Mr. Cromwell, seeing Mr. Pym as they left the House
together, called out to him and said--
"It is my Lord Strafford you strike at, is it not?"
And Mr. Pym answered "Yes."
The two gentlemen walked together down Whitehall. There were a great
many of the meaner sort abroad, hustling and clamouring and passing
rumour from mouth to mouth about the progress of the Scots and the
humour of the King, all of them big with hopes of the things the
Parliament men would do, now they were gotten together; of how the
bishops would be put down for ever, the new taxes taken off, and His
Majesty's design for bringing over an army of Irish or French Papists
finally defeated.
As they neared Whitehall--that portentous and haughty palace behind
whose closed gates Majesty endured humiliation as best might be--Mr.
Pym, looking round him in his stately way at the robust and eager
crowd, touched his companion's arm.
"Mr. Cromwell," he said, "there is good material here if the right man
could be found to handle it."
"'Tis a great nation," answered Mr. Cromwell, "but 'tis to the ancient
blood we must look--not to these."
"That was my meaning," returned John Pym; "there are among us many able
men--but who will be called?"
"Thou thyself, Mr. Pym," said his friend warmly, "art surely a man
after God's own heart, one whom he hath raised up to be a captain, even
as he raised up David."
"I do what I can," returned Mr. Pym quietly, "but I am not the man for
whom England waiteth."
By now they had reached the post office at Charing Cross and halted at
a cutler's shop near by, for Mr. Cromwell had left his sword there in
the morning to be repaired, and now came to call for it. As there was
press enough of people buying and testing arms about the door, they
were delayed a little, and as they waited, a young gentleman, thrusting
a brace of new pistols into his belt, pushed his way through the crowd,
mounted a horse a groom held for him, and rode away with great speed.
Mr. Pym looked after him.
"That is a friend of my Lord Strafford," he whispered, "posting to York
to warn him to keep from London."
"Has it come to that?" asked Mr. Cromwell in a moved voice. "Is my lord
afraid?"
John Pym looked at him sharply.
"Hast thou not seen that temper in the House whereof any man might be
afraid?" he answered.
"But my Lord Strafford!" exclaimed the other gentleman in a tone as if
he named the King himself.
"Thinkest thou I have not the courage to impeach my Lord Strafford?"
demanded Mr. Pym grimly. "He is the chief author of these troubles, and
must answer for them to the Commons of England."
"I well believe thou hast the courage," answered Mr. Cromwell quietly,
taking up the sword which was waiting for him, "as I believe my lord
hath the courage to answer you."
"He hath courage," returned John Pym. "You speak as if you favoured
him," he added with a smile.
Mr. Cromwell smiled also and they left the shop, turning towards St.
Martin's Lane where Mr. Cromwell had his lodgings beyond the fields,
and there, when they had reached his chamber, they sat quiet awhile,
oppressed by the sense of great events which, gathering force and
momentum with every day, were marching forward with the majestic
strength of fate--events in which they, these two modest gentlemen
sitting silent in this modest chamber, felt that they might be
involved, might indeed be piece and part of the new pattern into which
the destinies of England were being rapidly woven.
Presently Mr. Cromwell rose and opened the window on to the light of
the setting sun which fell aslant the narrow street.
"There is a great battle before us," he said.
"Now the Parliament is called, half that battle is won," replied Mr.
Pym.
"Dost thou see things so easily?" returned the other. "This Earl now
will make a fight."
"This Earl will bend," flashed John Pym, "as the King will bend."
"The King?" repeated Mr. Cromwell thoughtfully. "Wilt thou threaten
even the rock of Divine authority on which the throne standeth?"
John Pym laid his hand on his friend's arm with a great eagerness
and intensity of gesture. He stood now in the full light of the open
window, and it was noticeable that, despite his strong and passionate
air, his person was emaciated and there was a look of disease and
fatigue very marked in his mobile face, as if he felt the full weight
of his years.
"Hark ye, Mr. Cromwell," he said, "thou art now much hearkened to in
the House and do often obtain the mastery thereof; thou wilt come to
great things yet, for, methinks, thou hast power over men; help us now
to rid England of this Strafford. I ask thee, for hitherto thou hast
kept silence on this matter. And I do not know thy mind on it."
Mr. Cromwell regarded him gravely, almost mournfully.
"Dost thou mean to have the Earl's head?" he asked.
"That is my inner and final meaning--even as it is his to have thine
and mine, and that of every man in England who dare speak his mind.'
"Then there is failure before thee," answered Oliver Cromwell, "for
this man is the King's friend, and the King will protect him."
"The King will have neither the power nor the will to protect a man
whom the Commons demand."
"The Duke of Buckingham----"
Mr. Pym broke the sentence.
"Ay--the Duke of Buckingham--would the King have saved him? Felton's
knife spared the answer."
"This makes His Majesty without honour," said Mr. Cromwell. "I cannot
imagine that he ever could or would abandon one whom he hath twined so
closely in his affections."
"The Earl must go and all he standeth for," returned John Pym.
"Ay, all he standeth for--the Star Chamber, the ship money, the Court
of High Commission, the power of the bishops--but the man thou canst
not touch, and thou mayst well leave his life when thou hast destroyed
his life work."
"Surely thou art always too compassionate," replied Mr. Pym.
"I have no natural hatred against the Earl of Strafford," smiled Mr.
Cromwell, "and it seemeth to me a hopeless task you do attempt, for the
King can never surrender him."
"I may fail," said John Pym. "I know that I play a desperate game, but
I feel the Lord is with me and that for His ends and His people I work.
Only a little while we have, the bravest and best of us, and how much
there is to do! How much!"
Mr. Cromwell leant further out of the window; there was a pot of
geranium slips on the sill, and their perfume was strengthening with
the fall of evening, and filling the quiet air with richness.
Oliver Cromwell looked over the deep, bright, green leaves towards
Whitehall which lay bathed in the gold and amber light of the sinking
sun.
"Hark!" he said, "hark!"
"Thou hast sharp ears," said Mr. Pym. "I hear nothing."
"I hear," returned the other, "the citizens of London rising----"
John Pym listened intently. A distant murmurous sound was soon audible
enough, a hoarse sound of human shouting, a blend of human voices with
clash of weapons and the tramp of feet.
"'Tis the train-bands fighting the apprentices, and those of the baser
sort, belike," said Mr. Pym. "Yesterday they were like to have burnt
down Lambeth Palace when they discovered His Grace had again fled."
Mr. Cromwell continued to gaze towards the end of the street, across
which several people were beginning to run, attracted by the now common
event of a street riot.
"The Lord is leading the nation through bitter ways," he observed.
"And I do see ahead of us a time of much trouble, for if His Majesty is
stubborn, these," he pointed down the street to the hurrying crowds,
"will fight."
"Parliament," replied Mr. Pym, "will settle all grievances without
bringing the mobile into it. Mr. Cromwell, to-morrow I will go to the
Bar of the House of Lords and impeach the King's favourite of high
treason, and there will be a many following me. Wilt thou be one of
them?"
Oliver Cromwell turned swiftly round to face his friend.
"Count on me," he said quietly, "to not leave thy party until thou hast
brought the King to reason, but I believe that this will be a longer
and bloodier business than any of us reckon on as yet."
"I trust we shall leave blood out of it," answered Mr. Pym gravely.
"But God directs as He will, and we are not of a temper to shrink from
fighting for His word and our liberty."
By now the crowd had gathered in considerable proportions, and the two
spectators at the window observed that the centre of this agitated
throng was a coach and four which, protected by several constables,
footmen, and two gentlemen on horseback, was endeavouring to make
headway down Whitehall, probably to the palace.
"Who is this," wondered Mr. Pym, "whose appearance causeth such a riot?"
They were, however, too far off to discern the occupant of the coach,
and therefore presently descended into the street to discover who it
might be whose progress was thus impeded, and to offer, if need be,
some assistance against the clamour of the mobile, for violence and
outrage were not wished for by these two, even though the cries of the
populace might be but an echo of their own sentiments.
As they began to push their way, into the fringe of the crowd, they
perceived that the coach had been brought to a standstill and was
densely surrounded by shop boys and the meaner kind of citizen.
The coachman, buffeted by various missiles, leant from his box and
cried--
"My lady, I cannot go on!"
At this the leathern curtains of the coach were drawn back and a
woman's face appeared at the window. She regarded the press before her
fixedly, and with a curious blankness of expression, her high-bred and
sensitive countenance had a cold look of either pride or terror, or
preoccupation, which made it mask-like as a carving.
Mr. Pym touched his companion's arm.
"It is Lady Strafford," he said.
Mr. Cromwell had never before seen the wife of the great minister who
was now no better than a doomed man, and he gazed with vast interest
and pity at the face staring from the coach window.
"We should save her from this," he answered, and, lifting his sword
hilt, with a few rude blows he forced his way through the crowd to the
coach.
"Stop this fooling!" he shouted, and his voice, when raised, was of an
extraordinary depth and harshness. The rioters turned, startled, and,
with a quick movement of his powerful arm, he swept two youths from the
wheels to which they were clinging to impede the movement of the coach.
Mr. Pym was now beside him, rather breathless with pushing his way
through.
The Countess never moved or altered her bitter calm; the two gentlemen
both saluted her, and when Mr. Pym's hat was off and she had a clear
view of his countenance, she gave a great start and the hot blood
rushed to her face and burnt up her pallor.
"Mr. Pym!" she cried. "Oh, John Pym!"
At the sound of this name, which was now famous throughout England as
the champion of the people, the crowd quieted and began shamefacedly to
give way, being at heart good humoured and not disposed to more than
rough horse-play, after the nature of English crowds.
"Ride on, madam," said Mr. Pym sombrely. "Your way is clear."
"I want not your succour," she returned, with great heat and force;
"false friend and subtle enemy, I know what you contrive against us!"
"Against _you_ nothing," he replied, "since once I enjoyed your grace
and entertainment--and, madam, it was your lord left us, not we him."
"Oh, what a land is this become!" answered the Countess, "when every
designing, rebellious knave may endeavour to strike even at the very
architects of the realm!"
"Architects of tyranny, madam," said Mr. Pym; "and every plain fellow
who can handle a sword may rightly endeavour to strike at them."
"Your presence flouts me," cried Lady Strafford. "Drive on!"
The coach swung forward on the leathers and jolted off down Whitehall,
still pursued by a few boys shouting and hooting.
"In the old days when I knew her," said John Pym, "she was a most
modest, excellent lady, but now I doubt but that she is proud and
blinded even as her lord."
"She seemed to me," replied Mr. Cromwell, "to be not so much as one
proud, but as one in a mortal fear."
"She has heard somewhat of this inquiry into Irish affairs, and is off
to the King to pray protection for her lord. Poor, silly woman, as if
she could prevail against the Commons of England!"
The autumn dusk was now rapidly approaching, and the two friends turned
into the Strand to find a tavern to get themselves some dinner before
they returned to the House.
Meanwhile the Countess of Strafford drove furiously into the courtyard
of the palace and, hastening through the public halls and galleries,
demanded an audience of the Queen.